Vega's Handy Dandy FNaF-y Request Blog

You storm into the house, throwing your bag and coat onto the couch and kicking off your shoes before making a beeline for the bedroom. Michael turns to greet you, but you don’t even give him the chance to speak. You grab his shoulders and push him down on the bed behind him and pin his body beneath yours as he yelps in surprise, but it’s quickly muffled by your lips on his.

You set off at a bruising pace, nipping at his lower lip and forcing your tongue into his mouth, all the while letting out huffs and growls of lust and anger, while Michael mewls like a frightened kitten. His wrists are pinned together above his head in a one-hand grip, and your other hand is rubbing him through his jeans, drawing strained whimpers and high pitched moans from his abused mouth.

When you need oxygen, you sit up on your knees- straddling his hips- and admire your work. He’s such a pretty mess beneath you, flushing sinfully, shirt rucked up and fluffy brown hair disheveled, velvet-soft lips red, wet, and swollen from use. His eyes and pupils are blown wide and he’s panting hard from arousal as he whines at the sudden distance. The burning in your gut turns from rage to a much more pleasant fire.

“You want me to fuck you, baby?” you growl.

He nods vigorously and licks his lips.

“You want me to pound into you until you’re screaming?” you breathe out.

“Yes! God, please love; I want you inside me! Please fuck me!”

His cries of desperation are cut off as you press your mouth hard against his. The bruising pressure has him squirming and groaning, bucking up against you. You indulge him and yourself, grinding against his dick and riding the warm pulse of euphoria coiling in your core. His erection is straining at the fabric of his pants, and he presses harder and harder into you, blindly seeking all the friction he can get.

All at once, you stop and move away, watching as tears well in his eyes, born of the strength of his need for satisfaction. You hush his dismayed noises and begin undoing his belt. Your own erection was aching for attention, head swimming in a haze of lust, so you decide to do away with foreplay altogether and just fuck his brains out. Tearing his shirt over his head and tossing it away, followed by his pants and boxers, you take a second to just look at him. Smooth skin flushed red with arousal, lean-muscled and graceful body, pretty coils of dark hair around the base of his upright and dripping cock. Oh, how you loved him and how you loved the way he looked writhing in pain and pleasure.

You don’t want to waste any more time rummaging for lube in the nightstand, so you shove your fingers into Michael’s mouth. He squeaks in surprise but takes them greedily, licking and sucking and swallowing while looking up at you so innocently and eagerly, big blue eyes so prettily framed by slightly damp eyelashes. You push further in, and he gags a little, eyes watering, but doesn’t protest.

“Look at you baby; such a good boy,” you croon, caressing his face with your other hand and relishing the way his eyes glaze over and cheeks somehow turn even redder from the praise.

You slowly remove your fingers, lingering on first his tongue, then his lips; brushing them gently before pulling away entirely, Michael’s infatuated gaze fixed on the string of moisture that briefly hangs between them.

Without warning, he feels a finger enter him, sinking to the knuckle immediately; he lets out a shuddering gasp and throws his head back. When it begins moving and curling inside him, he keens in pleasure, the sound going straight to your dick.

“Oh! Fuck, love; YES!”

The pulse of lust is almost too much for you, and your eyes roll back as you wrestle down the urge to just slam into him with no further prep. You add another finger and begin scissoring him open, drawing even more primal cries and gasps of bliss from his perfect throat. You lean down to press hungry kisses all over it as you slide another into him, reveling in the way his throat vibrates under your lips when he moans. The final finger announces what you’ve both been so desperate for. Pulling away from his neck, leaving bright red marks over every available inch of skin, you remove your fingers and spread his legs, admiring the way his stretched out hole flutters with need, begging to be filled.

Giving him no warning, you thrust your leaking cock into him all the way, fully sheathing it as he wails in unadulterated ecstasy and pain. You throw your head back and groan,

“Shit, Michael! You feel s- so good; so, so good baby!”

His back arches and he grabs fistfuls of the bedsheets as you begin snapping your hips at a punishing speed, pounding into him and sending throbbing bursts of rapture through his entire body. With each thrust, his smooth inner walls clench around your length, stoking the buzzing heat that roils in your center, turning your nerves into live wires of euphoria and drawing out harsh gasps and growls that have him whimpering with pure desire. The smack of skin on skin is gasoline on a bonfire; both of you are letting out unrestrained cries of feral passion, writhing together like animals in heat. The bed quakes and sweat soaks the sheets as your desperation mounts, on the very precipice of climax.

“Cum inside me love! Please ! I want to- ah! I want to feel it in me!”

You aren’t going to last much longer, the scorching pleasure is consuming your very being. You begin pumping his neglected cock, stroking from base to tip, urging him to climax with you. You thrust harder and deeper, hitting his sweet spot dead on with every move and he was gone, colorless cum squirting as he screams in pure delight, ripping your own dizzying orgasm from deep within you. You dig your nails into his thighs as you ride out your high and work him through his, milking it to the last and pulling out before oversensitivity hits.

His fucked out expression and the clear cum dripping out of his red and gaping hole provokes a surge of protectiveness and adoration that overwhelms you, and you clamber up next to him on the bed. He reaches for you and you pull him in to cradle him against your chest, tracing circles on his back and running your fingers gently through his soft hair as you both lay in peaceful silence. He snuggles closer, eyes heavy with exhaustion, and buries his face in your neck. You think he’s fallen asleep, but then he murmurs

“I love you so much, darling…”

and presses a whisper of a kiss, feather light and just as delicate, onto your neck.

Thank god humans couldn’t spontaneously combust, otherwise you’d be a pile of ashes right now. He’s so sweet. What you did to deserve him, you’ll never know. Giving the top of his head a lingering kiss, you whisper your reply into his curls,

“I love you too, Michael.”

She’s sitting on a ratty-cushioned waiting room chair in a black and white striped sweater, hands in her lap, and he’s leaning up against the front desk, arms crossed and face streaked with sweat and smudges of grime from work. The lobby of the auto shop buzzes with silent and awkward tension, and he rubs the back of his head as he stares down at the worn ugly carpet. They used to be childhood friends, but time and circumstances set them on opposite sides of a chasm of loss and pain. Now, though, time and circumstances seem to have once again healed that scar in the landscapes of their lives; for they are once again together in Hurricane, Utah. She fiddles with her key lanyard, flashing a name he hadn’t heard in seven years: “Charlie”, embroidered on the faded green polyester. He raises his head and starts to say something; but at the same time, so does she.

They both stop abruptly and look away, casting their gazes around the room, looking anywhere but into the other’s eyes. Charlie settles on staring intently at the nametag ironed onto his mechanic’s jumpsuit. As if she needs any reminder of the name of the boy she’d spent so much time with as a young girl. The stitched words spelling out “Michael A.” shift, and her attention is drawn to his hand as he runs it through his fluffy brown hair a second time. Swallowing her anxiety, she tucks her short, dark hair behind her ears and begins to speak again.

“I can’t believe you’re still here. Not that I wish you weren’t!” she hastily adds, terrified of coming off as rude. “I just meant- I guess- that I would’ve thought you’d take the first opportunity possible to get out of Hurricane, y’know, considering all the shit that happened here seven years back.”

He looks back up and smiles half-heartedly. He remembers all too well.

“I, um- I haven’t had a chance to leave yet. So much has happened while you’ve been gone, I don’t think we’d have enough time in the day to talk about it all. I’m glad you’ve come back for a visit though; it’s really good to see you again.” He tries not to fidget or betray his anxiety. God, how he’s dying for a smoke break. Socializing is not his strong suit, especially when it involves a girl he’d been hopelessly in love with as a child and still is now, it seems. What if now that he was older it was more obvious that he wasn’t a real man? Would she even still be able to stand the sight of his face?

She gives him a nervous crooked smile and replies, “It’s awesome seeing you again too! I thought this was going to be a rough week, but now that we can hang out like we used to, things are looking a little better.” Shit, she really shouldn’t have assumed that he’d even want to try rekindling their friendship. Oh god, what if he hates how she’s changed? How almost everything she wears is black? How she’s pretty sure she likes girls as well as boys?

She’s barely able to hide her relief when he visibly brightens at her words.

“Yeah! I’d really love to catch up,” he says, looking rather timid but adorably hopeful.

“Wanna grab some coffee later maybe...? I- If you don’t want to, that’s totally cool. We can do whatever you wanna do. Um...” she trails off, anxiously picking at her already ragged cuticles.

Michael is honestly glad she’s not looking at him. He’s pretty sure his face is bright red when he replies “No, that sounds great! Coffee sounds great, that is. And hanging out with you again sounds great too, of course! Better, even! Not that coffee isn’t good, I just- goddamnit ” he cuts himself off with a self-exasperated groan and thunks his head down on the counter. He hears a quiet laugh and peeks up over his arms.

“I missed this. God, we’re both such a mess.”

The first thing Felix had learned when he died was that there was no god.

There were billions.

When he’d opened his eyes, he’d found himself standing in the dark on an uncomfortably familiar road, a forest to his right. Jack was there- Rosemary beside him- standing before him in a blaze of glory. Two smaller beacons peeked out from behind them. Ed and Molly watched him with wide eyes as Jack gestured to the deceptively suburban afterlife and informed Felix that they were gods now; them and all the other good souls who’d passed on. But not him. Not yet, anyway.

Every new god had the choice to create a tailor-made hell for the souls who were their tormentors in life, and Jack had taken his cue from them and created one for Felix with the help of Rosemary. He assured his former friend that this was temporary and would only serve to force Felix to face the same pain the Walten parents had suffered when their children had seemingly disappeared, had died for all they knew, since Felix had been ominously silent and avoiding their calls. He hadn’t protested; he hated himself for what he did, and knew it was only fair. He’d wanted to do everything he could to earn back Jack’s friendship.

Now, he was free. His hell had indeed been just as bad as the title implied; he was forced to relive the accident over and over again until he finally, naturally made the right choice in the situation and told Jack what he’d done to his children. In this reality, he didn’t bury Ed and Molly in a lonely, unmarked grave. He didn’t ghost Jack. He didn’t erase him from company history. Only when he’d learned how to face up to his actions did a blinding light engulf the illusion around him, sending his hell crumbling to ashes. Jack had come down to get him, sensing that his work was done. On their way out, however, Felix paused.

“Hey, Jack?”

The taller man glanced over his shoulder, saw that his friend (?) had stopped, so he turned to face him and gestured for the other to continue.

“While I was… in there, I heard that someone we briefly knew is here in hell. You remember William Afton, right?”

Jack thought for a moment, then replied, “Oh! Wasn’t he that British fella we met at that business convention thing? Yeah, I remember. I’m not surprised that he ended up here; I don’t know what it was about him, but any time he was around, there was just this strange atmosphere…”

Felix nodded. He remembered that feeling well.

“Turns out, there was a genuine reason for that. He killed six kids in his own pizzeria; one of those was his friend and business partner’s daughter.”

Jack shot him a glance. Felix knew he had guessed what he was about to ask, but he continued anyway.

“Is there a way I could pay him a visit?”

He didn’t have to explain; Jack absolutely knew why he wanted to see Afton. He was glad he didn’t have to justify himself. How was one supposed to tell their friend that they wanted to talk to a child murderer because they needed confirmation that they weren’t as bad as him?

With something not that far from pity in his expression, Jack gave him a short nod.

“Follow me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The horrid stench of new blood and old hit Felix like a truck as soon as he entered; the oppressive heat of the office amplifying it obscenely. He struggled to keep his head in the present as memories of small bodies and too much blood threatened to drag him back to the day of the crash. Disoriented, he took in his surroundings. He was standing in a small, very cluttered room; the detritus of old animatronics and mechanical parts were scattered everywhere, relics from the old pizzerias. The black and white checker tile floor was cracked and stained with age and use and… blood.

Ah. So that was the source of the smell. One of them, anyway. Looking closer, Felix could see that there were splashes of blood everywhere, ranging from specks and spatters on the walls to huge dried streaks and fresh puddles on the floor, all of them growing more concentrated the closer they were to the cluttered desk in the back. He followed the trail of red, trepidation growing steadily, almost vomiting when he began to see quivering pink chunks of flesh and gore mixed in. He heard a sudden intake of breath and a rustle of movement and jumped so badly he nearly lost his footing and slipped in the blood that was now completely obscuring the floor.

Heart beating out of his chest (he’d forgotten in his fear that it was impossible for him to die twice), he watched a pale, scarred, and bloodied hand grab the edge of the desk and heave the man attached to it to his feet. Felix saw dark hair; then cold, bloodshot grey eyes as William Afton straightened up; covered in blood, joints popping sharply as if they were being set back into place.

His eyes landed on Felix, pinning him in place like a cat trapping a mouse by the tail. His piercing gaze sharpened as he smiled- a slow, terrible grin that would’ve frozen Felix right where he stood had the staring not gotten to him first. In a voice like clattering bones, he said,

“Fancy seeing you here. Hello… Felix.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Felix flinched when he heard his name, and William felt a surge of savage satisfaction. At least there was a little fun left to be had in hell, though it hardly made up for the torture of dying over and over again. He walked around to the other side of the desk, grinning wider when the shorter man quickly backed away. He leaned back against it, crossed his arms, and asked,

“So. What in the world possessed you to make you want to pay a visit to the man who so clearly unnerves you? I could tell I made you uncomfortable the second I met you at that convention,” he continued, “and you’re obviously still afraid of me, so why have you come to see me?”

Felix looked like he was about to faint, but he took a deep breath and blurted,

“I- uh, I heard about what you did while I was… down here, er- in my own hell, that is.”

“Oh yes, I remember hearing about your little mishap with your friend’s children. I saw the tapes,” William added when the bespectacled man gave him an incredulous look. “What a shame, to be the sole cause of so much of your friend’s pain.” He pulled a mocking frown. Ohhh, he was enjoying this. Felix was such a nervous man, it was almost too easy to torment him. “You were close with them, were you not? Did they call you Uncle Felix?”

He looked pained, like he’d been punched in the gut.

William took that as a yes.

“Henry’s daughter called me her uncle as well. I wonder, did Ed and Molly scream and cry like Charlie did when I sunk my knife into her? ‘Uncle Will! Stop! Please!’” he mocked, raising his pitch to a cheap mockery of her pain, glee palpable in his voice and glints of insanity in his wild eyes as he stalked towards the pitiful creature before him.

Out of nowhere, a splitting pain erupted along his jaw and he stumbled back, steadying himself against the desk. He put a hand to his mouth and his fingers came away red. He whipped his head around to glare at Felix. He was ghostly pale and absolutely livid, fists still clenched from the punch he’d just landed on William’s jaw.

“You wanted to know why I came?”  he asked, voice trembling with fear and rage. “I needed to know for sure we weren’t the same. That I wasn’t a monster, and that you were. ”

Will said nothing. He could feel an old familiar urge burning in his chest, the very feeling that enveloped him each time right before he silenced the last cries of another wretched child. It was like a black hole; a yawning, bottomless pit that could only be sated by the unmatched sensation of his knife sinking through skin, tearing past muscle, and squishing into the organs of his agonized and screaming prey. He lowered his head, feigning defeat, and waited for Felix to drop his guard. He might not be able to kill him, but he could certainly make him suffer.

Without warning, he surged forward; no plan in mind for how to do it, only that he would. He relished the shock on that sniveling bastard’s face as he raised his arms in defence with no time to do anything else but brace himself. Just as he drew close enough to strike, William was blinded by a flash of red light and sent flying back into the desk again by a scorching pulse of energy. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was Cassidy hovering between them looking for all the world like the new god she didn’t deserve to be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After Cassidy- as he learned her name to be- had escorted him out of William’s hell and back to where his friend was waiting, Felix and Jack walked through sunny St. Juana’s forest (or the afterlife equivalent) in comfortable silence for a while, providing Felix with the relaxing environment he needed in order to process what happened and calm his racing heart. The tall brunette seemed to be deep in thought, or maybe he was the one giving Felix time to think. He wasn’t sure. It had always been a difficult thing for him, navigating interactions and understanding social cues. Eventually though, Jack broke the silence.

“Did you get what you came for?” he asked, stopping to look over at him, sunlight filtering through the leaves and dappling his pensive face in golden light. It was peaceful. Felix nodded and gave him a little smile, feeling content and satisfied with himself for the first time in many years.

As if in a dream, or more accurately a nightmare, I drifted away from the harsh words driving needles into my ears and my mind. They sounded oddly muffled, like they were lost in the distance and smothered by a fog that looked and felt almost like static. It gushed into my brain and filled it to the brim, roiling and scratching at the inside of my skull like sentient monochrome sandpaper; spilling out through my eyes as streaks of hot moisture, the grating static rubbing my eyes and cheeks raw.

Soon the angry voices were lost to the fog and physical distance as I somehow made it to my car. With silence there came an unbearable pressure and a terrible buzzing sensation, as if billions of insect legs were skittering across my flesh from the inside. All I wanted to do was climb out of my own skin and run free; anything to lose this feeling that plagued me, that hunted me like a bloodhound on the scent of a crippled rabbit. The entire drive was an incoherent blur, and my body was home before my thoughts had time to catch up.

As I climbed the front stairs in a daze, regretting with each step my choice to visit my mother again, the itching buzz of the insect legs in the skin of my chest, feet, and hands incrementally began to turn to what felt like innumerable silver needles sinking through my skin. Memories began to flood in; all of them terrible, all of them painful.

I stumbled into the bathroom as I began to hyperventilate, desperation pushing my hand into the back of the smallest drawer. My fingers closed around the cold metal of the pocket knife, my heart already calming and arms already burning in response to the familiar weight of the blade in my hand. I flicked it across an empty spot on my arm, and I immediately felt the panic begin to drain from my head and flow down my arm with the thin stream of blood. The relief was instantaneous and just what I needed, so I opened a few more new exits for the black tangle of emotional sickness to escape through. I set the knife down, attention zeroing in strangely on the fact that I’d have to clean up the blood before Michael got home.

The chilliness of the wall helped focus my mind a bit as I leaned against it and slid down to sit on the floor. The reality of my situation finally sunk in, and the pain rose within me once again, more manageable this time thanks to my (admittedly unhealthy) coping mechanism. Why the hell did I ever even think going back there could be anything but a disaster? Goddamn my bleeding heart. That manipulative, bigoted, bane-of-my-existence excuse for a mother knew full well why I’d cut contact with her, and I thought I knew that as well, but no; I had let compassion sway my judgement.

My heart had jumped at the chance to make amends, and I had dared to hope she’d had a change of heart. I had wanted it, ached for it. But it was only another attempt to manipulate me and make me feel like a monster for simply wanting to live freely the way I felt was right for me. Just because I was her child now instead of her daughter didn’t mean she had to treat me like something stuck to her shoe.

Weren’t mothers supposed to love you? Weren’t they supposed to hold you and comfort you when life raked you through the mud? Wasn’t that something people did when they truly cared for one another? I put my head in my hands as gut-wrenching sobs wracked my body.

So lost in my grief was I that I didn’t hear the bedroom door open, nor the footsteps that paused for a moment before speeding up and heading to the bathroom. I only noticed something was different a few seconds before the door creaked open and Michael stuck his head in. The first thing he saw was the knife dripping red on the counter. Our eyes met, and I saw the shock and pained understanding blooming behind his eyes as he took in my tear-streaked face and bloodied arms.

“Oh, love, what happened to you?”

“God, Michael; I- I’m so sorry. I should never have done this. I never should’ve risked reminding you of what you went through.”

My voice shook and cracked like a building’s foundation in an earthquake. I buried my face in my arms, hating that I did something like this knowing he could find out. He didn’t need any more upheaval in his life, and being forcibly reminded of his old self-harm problem was the last thing I wanted for him.

I was still thinking in circles when I felt a pair of soft, warm arms wrap around me, and heard an equally soft and warm voice murmuring sweet, comforting assurances in my ear.

“Don’t worry about me; you’re the one bleeding. Let me take care of you for a change.”

He helped clean the blood from my arms, then led me to our bed, arm around my shoulder hugging me to his side. We curled up together in the nest of fluffy blankets and I buried my head against his chest, shuddering as I relaxed to the feeling of one hand rubbing circles up and down my back and the other running softly through my hair, sending warm tingles sparking across everywhere he touched. His whispers of comfort had me pressing nearer to him until I physically couldn’t get any closer. My hitching breaths slowed and evened out as his words and movements chased away my pain bit by bit.

We laid in a bubble of perfect peace, completely wrapped up in each other; limbs tangled until you couldn’t see where one of us ended and the other began, breaths mingling as they fell into tandem. I felt all of my dark thoughts fleeing before the angelic light that emanated from the dearest person in my life. He buried his face in my hair, nuzzling closer to me and pressing kisses gentle as the brush of butterfly wings to the top of my head. Pure bliss swelled in my heart, and I found myself smiling and thanking my lucky stars for sending someone so truly and completely good into my life.

He was the light of my life, and we understood each other on such a deep level that there was rarely any need to talk about how we felt; we communicated our emotions almost entirely through actions. Words often failed humanity anyway. How could mere words ever describe the true, deep kind of adoration. Not fluttery stomachs or passionate lust; it’s a love that aches . It sinks into your bones and consumes your entire being; shining outwards in a soft halo of light only the object of your affection can see. It makes you kinder, less rough around the edges; you want to do everything in your power to make your love happy, and their pain brings you to your knees in sympathy.

The cold edge of the wooden porch railing cut into the backs of Michael’s knees. He was perched on the dark oak beam, arms tightly wrapped around his chest, swinging his legs and watching the sun make its snail’s pace way to the horizon. He wished he could follow it. He wished he could travel to the edge of the horizon and step off into the nothingness of space. Of course, he knew that wasn’t how the world worked. The edge wasn’t a physical, attainable place. Too bad for him, as lasting peace seemed impossible to reach, just like that unattainable horizon. He angrily wiped his cheeks as a few tears escaped his restraint, hating the vulnerability that was laid out for all to see when he cried.

Soft footfalls behind him had him frantically scrubbing his face to clear all of the moisture before he turned around, though he knew it was Elizabeth without having to look. He had fifteen years of experience identifying footsteps, after all.

“What d’ya want?”

She stopped short and responded to his tone with a stern look that seemed beyond her seven years of age, and would’ve been more at home on their late mother’s face. He was struck with a sudden pang of loss. He wished she was still here; maybe she would’ve been a safe place to turn to when their father lost his temper.

Lizzie’s small but sure voice broke his reverie.

“Come and play dress up with me! I want to make you the prettiest in the world!”

Her words, so innocent and well-meaning, struck a sore nerve.

“ You’re playing dress up with your sister? I thought you’d decided you weren’t a girl.” His father pulled a face of mock confusion, “I wonder what everyone would think of you if they heard that ‘ Michael’, who swears up and down he’s a real boy, wears dresses?”

He briefly squeezed his eyes shut, then whipped around and barked out “Bugger off! I don’t wanna play with you.”

Her eyes widened and she took a step back, then forward again; affronted but undeterred.

“Pleeeaaase? I found some really pretty old dresses in the attic. I think they used to be mum’s, so they might fit you! Pleeeaaase try them on Mikey, pleeeeeeeaaaaase ?”

“Alright! Alright! I’ll come. Just… stop being so loud, okay?”

He massaged his temples to stave off his oncoming headache, then swung his legs over to the other side of the rail and slid off, landing on the deck with a hollow THUMP , now uncomfortably aware of the movement of his chest under its binding fabric. Lizzie threw her arms around him and lowered her voice to an almost whisper,

“You’re the best! When we’re done, maybe you won’t be sad anymore; feeling pretty always cheers me up.”

Smiling ever so slightly, he followed as she looped her arm through his and dragged him through the house to the attic ladder; he let her go up first so he could catch her if she fell, then pulled himself up.

In the dim glare of the bare lightbulb, dust motes swirled like snow and stacks of boxes loomed, looking like shadowy ramshackle towers. Michael could see where she had been rummaging; clothes were strewn across the floor and she’d managed to drag over the full length mirror judging by the tracks in the dust on the floor. He wanted to point out that it probably would’ve been easier to move the boxes, not the mirror, but figured it was futile. Elizabeth did things the way she wanted, whether or not it was the best way to do them.

“Come look! I found a really pretty purple dress for you!”

She scampered off, and Michael trotted after her. When he caught up, she was holding a floor length, high-collared evening gown. It was closer to indigo than actual purple, and the waist was embroidered with silver seed beads. He stopped dead and stared. This was the dress his mum had bought a year in advance in anticipation of Fredbear’s grand opening party. She’d never even gotten to try it on. He had no idea his father had kept it, and was honestly surprised he had, considering how fast he had moved on after she died. It was- to be perfectly honest- beautiful, and he found himself thinking he wouldn’t mind wearing it so much.

Lizzie clearly had no idea what that gown meant; she had a huge, expectant smile on her face and kept trying to thrust it into his hands. He hesitated. What if father says something?

Almost as if she could feel his trepidation, she reassured him,

“Don’t worry. Daddy isn’t watching. He can’t make fun of you for playing if he can’t see you.”

Grinning smugly when he nodded and took it, she continued, “I’m going to change too!” and skipped off with her favorite red dress.

After contemplating for a brief second, he sighed and slipped out of his t-shirt and jeans, then pulled the dress on over his head. He glanced over at his reflection in the floor length mirror; Elizabeth had been right, it fit him perfectly. He was lucky he’d inherited his mum’s height. Also rather lucky was the fact that the neckline was high enough that the fabric binding his chest didn’t peek out. As much as it surprised him to admit, he looked good; and he could already feel his mood lightening. He didn’t look nearly as femminine as he’d been worried he would; instead, he just looked like a young man in a dress, which was a unique but oddly wonderful look all on its own.

Thunderous footsteps again announced Lizzie’s approach as she careened around a teetering stack of boxes, red tulle skirt streaming out behind. He chuckled a little. She kind of looks like a fireball. It wouldn’t be a bad way to describe her personality too, actually . Stopping just short of colliding with him head on, she looked him up and down then broke into a huge smile.

“Wow Mikey!! Mummy’s dress looks beautiful on you! You’re the prettiest boy I’ve ever seen!” she gushed, bouncing with delight. “Why don’t I ever see any other boys wearing dresses? They might look as nice as you if they did.”

“Well, society says only women can wear dresses; which is bullshit if you think about it. Toxic masculinity is so deeply rooted in our social order that…” he trailed off, his own sudden ear-to-ear grin fading a bit as he remembered who he was talking to. Lizzie looked like a lost, wide-eyed baby owl.

"...Nevermind."

Honestly, he was so overwhelmed by her reaction that he almost forgot she probably couldn’t understand a word he was saying. Her whole response to him in a dress had done more than push away his anger and hurt; it had chased the shadows down and absolutely shredded them to confetti. A sudden wave of love for his little sister threatened to drown him, some of it pooling in his eyes and threatening to spill over. He smiled again; a pure expression of visceral joy bright enough to melt the iciest of hearts.

Its only competition was Lizzie’s itself. It made her so very incandescently glad to see her brother smile like that again after so long; and because of something she said. Although she had no idea what it was, she wasn’t about to complain. She just wanted her Mikey to be happy again. Father made him so sad, all she wanted to do was hide him away so she’d never have to see that expression of almost childlike delight disappear under a load of pain again.

She threw her arms around his waist and buried her face in his dress, and he huffed a short laugh as he mussed up her hair, drawing a muffled playful giggle from her. She’s so happy! I swear on my life to make sure that smile never dies. God knows we’re going to need each other as life goes on.

William did all this to them simply because he found it fun. It gave him a high, and he was addicted; hooked on their screams. Their sounds of anguish were to his ears like heroin is to a junkie’s veins. This was how he alleviated his boredom when animatronics could no longer satisfy. They were just objects to him. Cassidy knew this, and while her dear friend Charlie was inclined to show mercy because of her naturally compassionate disposition and because William was once like an uncle to her, Cassidy had no such qualms. Her rage was an ever-burning flame, an eternal ice storm. She would never forget how he cackled while she laid on the cold, dirty pizzeria floor in a pool of her own blood, agony wrenching screams from her small body as she was wracked with tremors and spasms. The memory was oversaturated and psychedelic, fixed evermore in the front of her mind for as long as her spirit had been trapped on earth in that putrid golden bear. It put her through the same agony every. single. day, but now she was free. She was free of all the pain and torturous memories, and hell if she wasn’t going to make the most of that freedom by trying her damndest to put Afton through even a semblance of the suffering she endured at his hands. She would throw all she had at him, force him to face the demons of his past over and over and over again. She would break him eventually; they had eternity, after all.

As of now, she hovered over his body. He’d died again, but he’d wake up in a moment. She just wanted to revel in the sight of him, body contorted, limp and pathetic on the checker tile floor. But he still hadn’t been brought quite as low as he deserved. She wasn’t satisfied. This disgusting sack of spite and malign intent had a long way to go yet.

A noise somewhere between a groan of pain and a growl of rage drew her attention to the figure on the ground. Ah. The asshole’s awake.

“I hope you’re having fun, you rat bastard. The others are chomping at the bit; they’re so excited to come back out to play again. If I were you, I’d get off your ass and settle in for another long night.”

He said nothing, but shot a- quite honestly hilariously petulant- glare at her like a kid being sent to timeout. The comparison gave her a rush of savage pleasure. Oh, how the tables have turned. She felt a mocking chuckle bubble up in her chest, and she didn’t bother holding it back. He didn’t deserve to even expect respect from her. Or from any of the others, for that matter. After all, he certainly hadn’t shown them any when he tore through their bodies like he was slaughtering livestock. The constant anger simmering in her gut began to bubble up, spurring her on.

“How are you enjoying your time here as Hell’s nightguard? I knew you’d land the job; they loooove scum with criminal records.” She drifted lazily through the air, resting her chin in her hand as if this were a cafe and they were making small talk over tea. He couldn’t hurt her, so she could say and do whatever the hell she wanted.

Still, he ignored her, slumping down into the desk chair and smoothing out his rumpled shirt.

In a spontaneous combustion that surprised even her, her bubbling rage erupted in a blaze of energy and roaring red light and she slammed her hands down on the desk before him, sending knick knacks clattering to the floor. To his credit, he only flinched a little bit.

“Look at me when I’m fucking talking to you, you sorry piece of mildew! Have you honestly learned nothing?! Do you feel ANY regret?! And you better answer this honestly, because if you don’t, I will know.” She waited for him to answer, seething with pure wrath, sending searing heat waves pulsing outwards and watching him with gritted teeth through the wavy, heat-distorted air.

“No. You all were merely a much-needed release, like hunting for sport. It wasn’t personal then, and it was never meant to be. You were never important enough to be something I regretted.” The calm, icy bite of truth in his words, so contrasted by his lilting accent, snuffed out the fires of Cassidy’s fury then and there. The air temperature plummeted, and ice crusted her fingers as her smoldering anger froze over into chilly disdain and steely resolve. She spoke with a voice like the sharp crack of splintering ice,

“You regret nothing? Well then. I’ll just have to make you. I have all eternity to just sit back and savor your agonized screams as you’re torn apart and stitched together over and over and over until I get tired of you or your mind breaks. Take a wild guess which will come first. And now,” she said, as she rose higher into the air, “It’s time for me to go. They’re coming.”

Chapter 1: Fluff

The sky outside the window was a pale orange, scarlet streaks feathering the horizon like strokes of watercolor paint. The warm dusk air was heavy with the leftover rich petrichor of the day’s earlier rains as it wafted lazily through the screen of the sliding back door. You were standing in the kitchen next to the cherry wood dining table, mug of tea in hand, zoning out on the smoldering sunset. You idly wondered where your love had got to. He’d been on edge a lot this week, and seemed to be spending a lot more time alone in your guys’ room than normal. When you talked to him, he kept up the conversation, but it was like only half his thoughts were with you. When you made love, it was missing the passion and spark that it had always had.

You sighed. The radio sighed back, static announcing the beginning of the next song. When you heard the first few notes, a deep wistfulness swelled in your chest. This one brought back some memories; once new and wonderful, now slightly bittersweet from your mood at the moment. This was the song that had been quietly playing that night almost two years ago, when you and Michael had first shared many a kiss and gently murmured your feelings against one another’s lips as you held each other, swearing to always be there to lend comfort and sympathy, to be the lighthouse in the storms of the other’s life, rocky future be damned. You understood each other deeply, and sometimes you felt like you wouldn’t have made it this far if it hadn’t been for him.

Lost in your worries as you were, you didn’t hear the soft footsteps as they approached first the kitchen, then you. Only when arms wrapped softly around your waist from behind did you return to the present. You felt smooth skin and soft hair against your face as he gently pressed his lips to the side of your neck. It was amazing how he affected your mood. As soon as you felt his touch, the tingly electricity of it began to melt away the shadows in your heart. He never failed to brighten your day with his sweet gestures and slightly unsure smile. God, you loved him to death.

You turned around in his arms to face him, and he gave you that soft little smile as you leaned your forehead against his (one of the benefits of being basically the same height was that neither of you had to strain your necks). In that moment, the last of your anxiety fled to the far reaches of your mind. You slowly brushed your lips together, not quite kissing, both of you reveling in the nearness of the other. Noses bumped and breaths mingled in the tender miasma of utter bliss. You slid your hands down his chest to his waist, holding him gently but firmly and pressing him closer against you as his hands glided upwards, taking their time and roving over your sides as they made their way to your shoulders. The music was almost drowned out by the haze of achingly saccharine peace as you lost yourselves in each other’s presence. You both needed this.

Slowly, the music seeped through your little bubble of silent communication, and you began to sway to the melody. You could tell he recognized this song by the way he completely relaxed against you, wrapping his arms around your neck, resting his head on your shoulder and letting his eyes flutter closed. He knew he was safe and loved. No one would hurt him here. His fluffy brown curls and warm breath tickled your neck, but it was a pleasant, almost calming sensation. He trusted you completely, just as you trusted him. Overcome with a sudden swell of absolute adoration and love for this sweet angel of a human, you tried to channel every bit of it into  a lingering kiss to the top of his head, feeling the swell of the music follow the surging emotion in your chest. He nuzzled further into your neck, and you felt your eyes tear up a bit. There was so much conveyed by that simple movement, especially being aware of how long it took him to figure out how to process his feelings safely. He was so touch starved when they first met, and he was too uncertain and afraid to feel comfortable initiating any form of physical contact. He didn’t feel safe or welcome. This is what drew you together. Two lost souls with messed up childhoods. Oh, how far you’d both come.

At the peak of the song’s intensity, he began slowly peppering your neck with small kisses, and you caressed his back and sides and hips, letting the movements of your hands convey just how much you loved him. When he sighed and hummed ever so sweetly at the sensation, you almost melted where you stood. You rested your head on his and pulled your bodies impossibly closer, pressing flush against him, leaving no room for the distance that had plagued you all week long.

As the song drew to a close, you carded your fingers through his hair and gently pulled his head back so you could see his face. As you gazed into blue eyes glazed over with contentment, you let your thumb stroke circles against his cheek. He leaned into your hand and closed his eyes, reveling in the touch of his love. Slowly, softly, ever so carefully, your lips met his. Firmly but tenderly, you moved against each other. His lips were so smooth and soft, you almost felt dizzy. You squeezed his waist ever so slightly, and his lips parted in a gasp, giving you a chance to slip your tongue into the kiss. He held to your shoulders for dear life, bunching up the fabric of your shirt into his fists, kneading your skin in his bliss.

Your breaths turned ragged and you felt a primal urge well up within you; the urge to make the dearest person in your life feel as good as he possibly could. To show him just how much he was loved and to let him know he deserved infinitely more than you or anyone else could ever give him, but you’d be damned if you didn’t give him all you could.

Chapter 2: ~ Unforeseen Smut ~

For a moment, there was no sound but heavy breathing and rustling clothes; then a small gasp and a needy whimper. You had Michael backed up against the kitchen table, absolutely ravishing him. Your hands were everywhere; mussing up his hair, sliding under his shirt, squeezing his hips; and your teeth nibbled and pricked at his lips, then his jaw, then his neck. With every sensation, he whimpered and whined and tried to press closer to you, desperate for touch and the pleasure you gave him. You gripped his thighs and pulled him up against you, allowing yourself to grind against him once before you set him on the table, drawing a moan from his mouth that you savored like fine wine.

You worked his shirt off over his head and began peppering kisses down his torso, worrying at his skin and  leaving red marks, being careful around the scars on his chest. You flicked your tongue over one of his nipples, and he inhaled sharply and tangled his fingers in your hair. The pulling sensation drew out a groan from you this time, and you took the rest of the stiff peak into your mouth, still brushing the tip of it with your tongue. As you switched to the other one, you began undoing his pants. Already a small dot of wetness had soaked through, telling you just how excited he was. Murmuring encouragements against his skin, you slid his pants and boxers off and tossed them away, leaving him laid bare for your admiring gaze. Just as the wet spot had suggested, his cunt was all but dripping in anticipation of what was coming.

"God, just look at you, my love. You’re such a pretty boy; already so wet for me. I’m going to make you feel as amazing as I can. Would you like that, baby?”

His lilting voice, accent all the more beautiful for the arousal thick in his words, whimpered “Yes please. I need you to touch me. I love how you make me feel, darling.”

You brushed the backs of your knuckles against his cheek, then spread his legs and lowered your head, kissing up and down the decadently soft skin his inner thighs, sometimes letting your tongue linger in spots that drew the most sinful noises from him, all the while slowly circling his clit with your finger. His beautiful whimpers and euphoric gasps were driving you mad. Gradually, you made your way up, the heady scent of his arousal permeating the air. Oh, how you loved the way he smelled. You could do this forever if life would allow it. You wished you could hear those downright salacious sounds he made all day, every day. You knew you’d never get tired of it.

You replaced your finger with your tongue, pressing it flat against his skin and stroking all the way up; and he keened. Your eyes rolled back in your head a little, so great was the wave of pleasure that his lustful cry sent through you. You savored the sweet taste of his slick as it coated your tongue, and Michael’s fingers, still tangled in your hair, dug into your scalp and tugged harshly, your rapturous groan sounding in harmony with his.

“You taste so good love. You're such a good boy; so good for me.”

The mad rush of your heartbeat in your ears was nothing compared to the pulse in your groin. You were almost aching with arousal. Unable to resist any longer, you slid your hand into your own pants, stroking yourself as you pleasured your love. His moaning and gasping grew more and more desperate as your tongue moved faster and faster and his cunt got wetter and wetter. His legs were twitching around you, sweat dripping down. You could feel the growing buzz in your stomach sinking lower and lower, soaking your underwear. In pure desperation, you ground shamelessly against his leg, rutting against him as you both whimpered “I love you”s over and over; panted “so good baby, you’re so good” until-

“Oh god, yes! Please I- I’m so close! Darling please~!”

Michael’s cries and gasping breaths crescendoed in a high, drawn-out wail of absolute ecstasy as he came, squirting all over your tongue and in your mouth, drowning you in the divinely delectable taste of his passion. The sight and taste of his undoing was what sent you careening over the edge, and you cried out as pure pleasure consumed you, working both of you through your highs until you were panting messes holding each other in a sweaty embrace on the kitchen table. The smell of sex hung in the air, and you both reveled in the afterglow, satisfyingly content, rediculously in love, and mentally thanking your lucky stars for the other.

When you’ve been here as long as I have, you start to realize that the horror is just the surface. What FNAF really is is a tragedy. It’s a desperately sad story about little lives that were ripped away from the ones they loved by a horrific (possibly wounded himself) monster of a man and forced to languish on and on, day after day, long after they should have been at rest; lashing out in confusion and agony and fear like a fox caught in a bear trap, hoping that one of the people they hurt turned out to be the depraved, remorseless killer that did this to them. What’s even more soul wrenching is that that wasn’t as bad as it got. The man behind the slaughter, the man who was colder and more unfeeling than the machines he made, amplified their suffering by tearing their bodies apart a second time to torment what was left of their souls and turn their already insurmountable pain into a wailing, writhing amalgamation of tortured and terrified little ones, bewildered and sobbing in their innocence  and agonized terror, screams rising to a fever pitch only made possible by the sheer degree of their suffering. A high, animalistic cry of pure, blinding white panic.

“ Why ?”

They cry. They don’t know what they did, why they’re being punished; why he’s doing these things to them. They don’t understand, screaming and keening because all they know for sure is that it hurts and they just want to be happy again, even though they have trouble remembering what that used to feel like. He already hurt them so much when he changed from their pretty golden bunny friend into a big scary man with a big scary knife. They thought they were gonna go eat some cake and play with the bunny that made them happy when he sung his pretty songs on stage with all the bright lights, but there was no cake and there was no playtime. Instead, the bunny took them somewhere dark. He got very close to them- they had to look straight up to see his shiny green eyes- and then he took his head off. Except, he had another head. This one was scary. It was smiling, but it was wrong too. Something was wrong, and it made them scared. They said they wanted to go back to their mommies and daddies, but he wouldn’t let them. He said they hadn’t had any fun yet and that he had a special surprise. They didn’t get to see what it was before the sharp thing was covered in sticky red and they looked down, watching that red stuff flood out from their chests, not understanding, fascinated for a split second.

“Was this the surprise? I didn’t know my body could do that!” they thought.

Then a terrible, burning cold pain lanced through them, and they understood; screaming as their world whited out in agony while their bunny friend with the wrong smile plunged his knife over and over into their tiny bodies, laughing like it was the best day of his life.